


The Cheapest Kind of Promise

by SavageSeraphim



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Cliffhangers, Fake AH Crew, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Self-Sacrifice, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9502946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavageSeraphim/pseuds/SavageSeraphim
Summary: When the Fakes pull off a job right, it's cataclysmic. It's fire and spectacle, almost blinding in the public eye. In private, they rest and poke fun at each other's mistakes, high on the exhilaration of escape in spite of it. On being untouchable, undying, a force of nature in flesh.This isn't one of those times.





	1. Chapter 1

The fact of the matter is, they’re not all going to make it out of this one. 

It’s just a matter of calculating the acceptable losses. The lowest possible damage. The most bodies that can make it out of this alive.

The number is five. 

The Vagabond knows this. He knows because Jack has stopped trying to salvage the plan, because Geoff’s gone from fury to fear. The lads haven’t caught up yet. Michael is growling curses at the rocket launcher and patting his pockets, his bags for anything explosive, anything to serve as a distraction. This isn’t his first attempt, and it will come up as empty as the last. 

Gavin is tending to Ray, the sniper bleeding from a broken nose and his breathing is caught on a cracked rib. He shouldn’t have been there, should have been in the next building over, safe from detection. But it was Ray who was swarmed first. Someone must have tipped off the LSPD to their heist, given them time to prepare, because the night air is heavy with sirens and flashing lights. 

There are still bullets in the Vagabond’s gun, body armor under his thick jacket. It’ll keep him going just long enough. He just needs to be quick enough, lucky enough. The mask hides his expressions far better than Ryan could ever manage on his own. It’s not grief. It’s almost a relief. He’s the most equipped to take care of this. It’s a strategy he knows the others can follow. Run a distraction, pull the attention so that the others can go. It’s one of Jack’s. Admittedly, meant to be performed under much different circumstances. An armored vehicle, a far less combatants. But the premise remains the same. 

Ray is looking over to him, worry knitting the brows above his eyes in an expression that is all too familiar - Trying to work something out, get in his head. The sniper can manage it better than most, but in this moment the Vagabond isn’t giving away any clues. The comms in their ears go quiet for a long few moments, listening instead to the sirens echoing off of brick buildings, hidden in the darkness of the alleyway. It won’t keep them safe for long. 

It’ll take a few minutes for Ryan to get to his bike. The same amount of time it should take everyone else to get to the car, even with Ray’s injury, even with the strange way Michael is holding his arm and Jack’s slow breathing as she manages the pain of a blossoming bruise on her side where a bullet had struck the armor under her shirt. Geoff is looking over the damage, something dark in his eyes. He’s not resigned yet, but the fear is there. For his boys. For Jack. 

They can fight through it. Just so long as they have time. 

Ryan can give them that.

The only thing is, they’ll never let him. Not a single one of them will ever agree to such a plan, even when their other options are scarce and far less viable. The lads are too brash, too reckless to see inevitability. The word doesn’t exist for them. Geoff is the leader, the Boss, if he’d allow anyone to go it would be himself - But it can’t be Geoff. They need him too much. And as harsh as the thought is, Ryan knows he wouldn’t last as long, wouldn’t be able to buy them the same amount of time. Then there’s Jack, who is already looking at him, all too quickly putting together the pieces, helped by an outline of quiet nights writing up contingency plans. 

It won’t take much longer. He has to make a stand now. Has to leave now, otherwise he won’t be able to go through with it, won’t be able to walk away. 

“I’m getting the bike. They’ll tail me first, bring most of the heat. You guys will have time to get to the car, switch it out as soon as you can so they can’t track it. Lay low somewhere until this cools off.” The Vagabond’s voice is far cooler and calmer than Ryan feels, and the plan sounds so rational, like he’d done it a dozen times, like he wasn’t signing a death warrant. 

The rest of them are not fooled.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind, Haywood.”  
“What, you think you can take all of those bastards without us?”   
“Don’t be stupid, Ryan.”   
“You will not go out there on your own, that’s not an option.” 

Ray is quiet, and it’s more difficult to read his expression behind the bandanna pulled over his lower face, but there’s pain there that isn’t just physical. Raw, frightened, staring up at the Vagabond like he’s told them all the building is about to crash down on them. 

“We’re out of options. They’ll be on us soon - We don’t have time to argue.” Ryan hears his voice as a snap, cracking against the stone buildings around them. He lets out a breath, but doesn’t waste time. 

“I’m going. I’ll tell you when I have their attention, and then you move.” The Vagabond doesn’t often give orders in the Crew, doesn’t often defy the others for his own plans. He’ll lead in a pinch, reign in the lads when Geoff and Jack are away, but this is different. This is last-resort, and it leaves a sick feeling in Ryan’s stomach to see Geoff’s expression twist the way it does, desperate for other options but finding none. They can’t fight. They can’t wait it out. They have to run, but they don’t have enough firepower to handle an all out chase.

“Everyone, check your comms. I’ve got backups if they’ve blown out-” It’s Jack that speaks next, her voice quiet but still carrying. Gavin is on his feet then, eyes blown out wide as he stares between the the three gents.   
“We can’t actually consider this.” His eyes are on Ryan, locking his gaze despite the mask between them.  
“You can’t. We’re a bloody Crew, you can’t just -”  
“Gavin.” Ryan looks intentionally over to Ray and Michael, seeing the dawning realization in the latter’s eyes as he comes to the realization that the others are taking this seriously. The Vagabond’s voice drops low, focusing on Gavin despite the fact that the others may hear nonetheless.

“They’re too hurt to fight. Michael and Ray. You have to get them home.” There’s weight to the words. Michael is Gavin’s. The Golden Boy and Mogar had painted their love across the city in blood and ash, killed for each other while grinning, stared down the barrel of the gun if only to keep the other safe.

And Ray. God. Ray and Ryan were a force of nature in the most horrific sense of the term. Inevitable. Vicious. Gratuitous violence wrapped up in an almost playful form of teasing, of taunting, of crafting a dynamic which was as adoring as it was abhorrent. At home, they were almost sickeningly domestic, practically intolerable. At odd hours of the night the kitchen lights would be on dim while Ryan baked, humming or singing along to music as Ray sat on the counter top, sampling whatever experimental treat the Vagabond had thought up and talking, just about anything. Whatever game he was playing, an upcoming job, joking lightly about the rest of the Crew.

It was no secret to the rest of the Crew that Ryan would do anything to protect any of them, but for Ray he was especially vicious and unforgiving, verging on distracted but generally managing to pull off from that edge. It was, perhaps, a calculated trick to play on the Golden Boy. To bring his lover to the forefront of his mind, to prioritize Ray over himself, but the pieces seemed to click into place and Gavin was quiet for a moment.

“Mine’s still working.”

“Name check.” That was Geoff, running through the usual test. They went by code name, alphabetically. Ray was always the first to start them off, but he wasn’t saying a word, still staring at Ryan. Gavin went ahead, starting off the list.

“Goldie.” His voice is clear through the comms for Ryan, but Michael shakes his head and takes out his comm at the same time that Geoff does the same, and both receive a replacement from Jack, preset from the beginning of the heist.  
“Mogar. Can’t believe we’re fucking-”  
“Overlord.” Jack cuts him off, something clipped and sharp in her tone that has Michael going quiet, breathing out slow.  
“Ramsey.” Geoff is looking over to Ray now, worry etched into his features, and Ryan’s eyes follow his. The sniper is making his way to his feet and Michael helps him best he can, wincing slightly when too much pressure lands on his wrenched shoulder. 

“Don’t you fucking dare, Vagabond.” Ray’s voice comes out in a rasp. There’s steel in those dark brown eyes and Ryan can’t help the wince that the mask doesn’t hide. There’s no doubt in the Vagabond’s mind that Ray’s seen it. Observant, sharp tongued Ray who isn’t letting him go without a fight despite the fact that he’s taken the worst beating out of any of them.  
“Ray, you need to-”  
“What, let you go on a fucking suicide mission? No, I don’t, and I don’t know why you assholes,” Ray’s accusing gaze turns on the others. Gavin meets his eyes steadily, as does Jack, but Michael just shakes his head and Geoff won’t look at him.  
“Are even considering it. We don’t fucking leave people behind.”  
“You’re not leaving me, I’m going-”  
“As if that’s any fucking different-”  
“Ray!” The sharp edge is back to Ryan’s tone, shutting up the sniper if only for a moment.  
“Would you just listen, alright? We don’t have the firepower for a standoff here. The roads are swarmed. If I can lead them off, you all have an exit. It’s not perfect. But it’s better than the alternative.” He let out a breath.  
“I’m sorry. But I’m not asking this time.” 

There’s something that snaps then and Ray is in his arms, holding on far tighter than his injuries should have allowed and Ryan has him pulled in close, murmuring soft words that are meant to be comfort but hardly mean anything at all.   
“Come back to us, Rye, alright?” The words are almost pitifully quiet, desperate. It’s the most selfish kind of promise Ryan can make, the kind that has no consequences for breaking, that can bring them both a false comfort before parting. He makes it anyway.  
“I will, Ray. I always do. Love you.” The mask is off just long enough, bandanna pushed down for a kiss that feels too short and too final before Ryan straightens his back, taking in a breath and looking over the rest of the Crew. Gavin steps forward to help support Ray and that’s it. 

There won’t be any goodbyes, Ryan’s made a promise now. 

He has to at least pretend there’s any chance of keeping it.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Ryan makes it to his bike he’s at peace with the choice he made. He can hear the others in his ear, familiar voices as Michael makes sure that Ray is comfortable in the back, as Gavin does the same for Michael. Jack is giving him calm, quiet updates every step of the way and it’s all Ryan can do to affirm them.

“We’re in, Vagabond. On your mark.” 

The motorcycle comes to life under him, gleaming off the street lights as he kicks up the stand. The mask is back on firmly, and a thought passes through Ryan’s mind for just a moment that he really will come to the end of his time with his face hidden like he’d been told years upon years ago. As a joke. As a threat. It doesn’t faze him. 

“I’ll tell you when I’ve got their attention.” 

It’s no difficult task for the Vagabond to grab the attention of the police forces, racing past them and firing off a round of ammunition from his Micro SMG, shattering windows of vehicles and seeing from the corner of his eyes blood splash across the glass. After spending their time searching the forces waste no time getting on the move. The flashing lights are dulled by the mask blocking off most of the Vagabond’s peripherals and he is far more focused on the voices in his ear than the sirens blaring around him.

“They’re on me, heading South towards Del Perro.” There’s the breath of a chance that the freeway can buy Ryan more time, and more importantly buy it for the rest of them. The LSPD can’t shoot as freely, swarm as efficiently, if there’s civilians in the mix. At this hour of night the city is still bustling with activity, and the Vagabond has no qualms using that to his advantage. 

Ryan is able to focus strictly on controlling the motorcycle, on pushing as fast as the machine can manage with a hair-trigger response time, for the first couple minutes. Until the first bullet hits him square in the back, sending a rush of pain through him like he’s had a hammer swung at his spine. The noise that escapes is involuntary, it doesn’t sound like him, and the bike swerves wildly for a moment as the voices in his ear grow more panicked, one sticking out from the rest.

“Keep going, just keep fucking moving, Ryan, okay? You’re gonna be fine, baby, you’re going to come back to us.” It’s Ray, and there’s strain to his voice, forcing himself calm and God, Ryan can’t fail him that quick.

“I’m okay, the body armor - I’m okay.” How much the body armor has done to protect him is unclear, there’s not exactly time to check, but the motorcycle is back under control without a crash, though he has lost considerable speed. The LSPD are getting close enough that the shots are nicking off his bike, flying past his ears, but he’s still moving. The lights of the freeway are a godsend and the Vagabond is practically flying onto it, civilian horns mostly drowned out by sirens. 

“I’m on Del Perro, heading West -”  
“South, Rye, head South. You’ll stay in the city longer, traffic’s still high and you can stick to Olympic.” The information is a rush from Ray and Ryan automatically corrects his course, trusting in him without a moment’s doubt, as if he had time for such a thing anyway. 

Maybe, somewhere, it should bother him that Ray has picked up on his plan, to involve as high a volume of targets as possible. Maybe he should feel ashamed of it, but he doesn’t. There’s Ryan and there’s the Crew and a handful of allies, friends worth trusting, and that’s where the line ends. That’s where the line has to end. They’re not exceptionally cruel as far as Crews go, but in desperation the morality gets greyer, the rules get looser, and there’s a deep-seated relief when the Vagabond notes that the volume of bullets in his direction has slowed considerably as he weaves in and out of traffic. 

Tires screech as cars over-correct to avoid him, headlights flash and he can hear shouting, some righteously furious, others blatantly annoyed and still others in genuine fear as bullets embed themselves in rubber, metal, and glass. There’s a crash that Ryan feels more than he can see as one cruiser slams the breaks and spins out on the turn onto Olympic, smashing into the barrier that only barely protects him from flying off of the freeway into the street below. Behind the mask, there’s the faintest twitch of a grin, adrenaline beginning to catch up as the Vagabond takes a handful of seconds to turn back with his gun. There’s a spray of bullets, accuracy sacrificed for speed and volume. No time to survey the damage, to see if he’s slowed the pursuit before he has to focus back on the traffic.

“Alright, I’m on Olympic, I’ve got a straightaway-”  
“Go down to Elysian, you might be able to lose them in East LS” Ryan finds that doubtful, the force following him has hardly diminished. If anything, they may have called reinforcements, but he doesn’t exactly have time to take a count “If not take go down Innocence and head into South LS, place is a fucking maze if you play it right - Ryan, you with me?”

The sound of a bullet whizzing past far too close to his ear is clear even through the comms and it takes Ryan a moment to breathe before he responds.

“Still with you. Elysian, East, Innocence, South.” The instructions are rattled off like it’s a drill, like it’s familiar even if they’ve never done anything like this before. There’s something comforting in that, in Ray’s voice, in the clear and calm instructions despite the chaos around him, despite the inevitability that’s weighing - Not as heavily as before. 

Ray sounds so confident, he’s got more than the Vagabond’s half-baked plan to draw fire his direction, he’s got a route, he knows the city like the map’s been imprinted in his brain. Ryan can follow his lead from afar, he’s escaped some pretty bad scenarios in the past with far less help than he has now. Ray’s voice is like a balm to the wound Ryan wouldn’t admit he had, always waiting until the end, always putting it off until the others were safe and sound.

“Okay babe, just stick with us, we’re clear so as soon as you can lose these fuckers-”  
In a moment the world goes black, explosive sound and then stunning silence, cold wind whipping across Ryan’s cheek, somehow wet. All he can focus on is sensation, the motorcycle engine still loud as he speeds across the freeway blind, tempting all manner of fate, any vengeful retribution would have an easy time of killing the Vagabond here, and Ryan is shocked in the moment to realize he isn’t dead. 

There’s a hole in the rubber of his mask, forcing it to the side, obstructing his vision. He can’t hear properly, sounds are distorted and there are no voices, only sirens and the screeching of tires, shots ringing out from afar - At least, they sound like they’re from afar, but he can’t be sure. In a single movement the mask is yanked back into place, restoring vision to a sight that has the Vagabond curling his lip. They’re closing in from the sides, having rushed once it seemed like one of the officers hit the mark. 

It’s impossible to tell for sure, but there’s a palpable tension in the air. They’ve hit him twice now, both that they must have expected to be lethal, and yet the Vagabond is still moving. There’s a shred of a barely missed shot across the sleeve of his leather jacket and holes in the metal shell of the motorcycle, too. Luck. Preparation, perhaps. Some skill. But mostly, it’s luck, and the Vagabond is running on borrowed time. Ray’s voice is gone from his ear, but there’s no moment to mourn that now. 

Maybe it’s for the best that the Vagabond’s quiet, panicked curses under his breath will go unheard as he pushed the bike faster, tearing through the work and energy he’d put into maintaining it over the years. Maybe it’s easier on all of them that Ryan can’t tell the Crew that he’s surrounded, that the only way out is through, that his odds have dropped off the side of a cliff. 

Maybe it’s a kindness on the part of the universe when Ray can’t hear the crash of metal as Ryan swerves to avoid a police cruiser and instead collides with a cement divider, the force of the impact flinging his body over the side and towards the ground below. 

But maybe it’s just that fate’s a bitch, and it’s not done fucking with the Vagabond just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the GTA V map is up constantly in another tab, and I wish I owned a copy of the game so that I could calculate certain...variables.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day <3

The moment Ryan realizes he’s hit water instead of concrete is the same moment it’s already rushing into his lungs, the horrifying feeling of drowning the first clue that he’s somehow still alive. Sheer panic is the only driving factor which gets him to the surface, tearing off the mask and retching, gasping for breath. His whole body is heavy, with pain, with exhaustion, weighed down in ammunition and weapons and waterlogged clothing. But he’s not dead. Ryan’s halfway to a concrete shore before the sound of sirens reaches him again and he feels his heart sink low in his gut. 

He’s not dead, but he’s surrounded. Nowhere to run. Nothing to be constituted as decent shelter for a shootout if such an altercation was even feasible with the odds being stacked so highly against him. His gun will still fire, the body armor is compromised but perhaps it could still take a few - 

But. This isn’t about running down the clock anymore. The rest of the Crew is safe, had sounded that way the last he could hear of Ray. They were safe. The Vagabond had done his job, the essential part of the fight was over. By the time Ryan’s out of the water, gasping as he leans against a concrete pillar, he’s whittled himself down to two options. 

Fight, and take as many of LSPD’s ‘finest’ down with him when the Vagabond eventually goes down. It’s not a new plan. It’s practically rehearsed at this point, one of a handful of ways Ryan’s been fairly sure he’d go since getting involved in this life. Certainly not the worst he could do. After all, he’d given them a hell of a chase, survived far more than he ought to have. There’s pride to be taken in that, even if it ends bloody. To die in some dramatic last stand despite the fact that it’s a fight he can’t win. 

But pride doesn’t fulfil his promise. Going down in a hail of bullets, alone all but for his killers and the roar of traffic above, won’t bring him back to the Crew. Won’t bring him back to Ray.  
There’s no guarantee surrender will save him, this is a city where white flags turn crimson at the drop of a hat. LSPD are no exception to that rule. There’s no guarantee that the rest of the Crew can get him out even if they do arrest the Vagabond as opposed to executing him the moment the opportunity presents itself. 

It’s still worth a shot. He’s got an obligation to try, at the very least.

The sight that the first handful of officers are greeted with is, without question, a gruesome one. Many of them have seen pictures of the Vagabond - Of a black skull mask, a dark leather jacket, and the muzzle of a gun. Most have seen him at least from afar, in chases, on security camera footage. A handful up close, with the mask off a and a sickening grin under the macabre design of his facepaint, hair tied back in a blackened tail. Usually the sight is accompanied by laughter, by threats and gunfire, but the man before them is somehow all the more eerie.

The gun that had taken out a handful of officers during the chase has been tossed aside, water lapping across the stone as if about to claim the weapon. The jacket, torn and soaked, has been shrugged off and lays a few feet out of reach but is still heavy with unused ammo. And then there’s the Vagabond himself. Mask in his hands, torn through on one side from someone’s lucky-but-not-lucky-enough shot. The facepaint is horrid, no longer a design so much as a melding of color and far more red than it should be, an entire side of the man’s face covered in blood that is still seeping from a long slice across his cheekbone. His dark hair is no longer neatly pulled back but instead hanging loosely around his face, soaked through like the rest of him. His expression is unnervingly, uncharacteristically calm. Pleasant, even, if such a word could be applied to such a man. 

Every gun is aimed in Ryan’s direction and he slowly raises his hands, palms visible, eyes traveling in a leisurely manner over each face. He recognizes a handful of them. Ryan could tell them their names, the color of the house they went to bed in at night and the name of the person who slept beside them, what Crews they’d done favors for in the past year. He decides against it. Not a single one seems eager to step forward despite the fact that the Vagabond is unarmed and looking considerably worse for wear. Ryan keeps his voice smooth when he speaks, knowing full well they won’t buy reassurances and for good reason but hoping to break the ice nonetheless.

“That was quite the chase you put on. Have to admit, pretty impressive this time around. Couple of you are even decent shots.” The backhanded compliments are met with some scowls, some looks of confusion and the Vagabond sighs, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders that has half of the officers tensing up like they expect him to reach for a weapon. But Ryan stays unarmed, looking them over with a critical eye.

“In case I have to spell it out for you, this is a surrender. Guess I could have started with that. Thought it would be obvious.” 

In all honesty, Ryan can’t blame them for being baffled. The Fakes don’t surrender, never have. They’ve feigned it a few times, but the officers that bought it didn’t survive to tell the others about the trick. There’s at least a dozen of them just facing him, more on the freeway above. But the caution is still heavy in their silence, anticipating a trap, unsure if they even want to take the infamous Vagabond in or just shoot him when the opportunity is so blatantly presented to them. 

One of the officers finally moves up to approach him, cuffs in hand and keeping a steady step even if the expression on his face is wary as if he was approaching a feral animal. Ryan has never acted quite so docile, breathing slow if somewhat ragged, moving to allow the officer to cuff his wrists behind his back. He has a feeling this isn’t the proper procedure, but it seems to have broken some of the tension as weapons slowly lower. Someone is speaking into a radio, quiet enough that Ryan can’t hear what he’s saying. If he had to guess, someone is probably being warned of his arrival.

The Vagabond schools his expression to something neutral and allows himself to be led, compliant and silent, to a police cruiser that takes him to La Mesa Police Station. 

Ryan’s never been arrested before, but he has a good sense of how things are supposed to go. Mostly from second-hand accounts, witnessing from afar, and if he’s being honest, cop procedurals on daytime television. Thrown to the ground, patted down, read his rights, the whole shtick. A phone call, maybe, and then someone coming in to harass him for information. Or was that out of order? 

Instead, the Vagabond finds himself handcuffed to a table in a room that, while simple and mildly depressing, is clearly not a cell. There’s a mirror on one wall and Ryan takes the opportunity to stare at it, expression amused. There could very well be no one behind it, Ryan would have no way of knowing, but somehow he doubts that. From this moment out, he has no plan. Only a goal. Continue breathing, make it back to the Crew. Two goals, then. It’s semantics. 

The important part is that he’s still alive. Now all he has to do is outwit or outgun an entire police department, starting from being handcuffed to a table in a locked room, likely under heavy guard. There’s plenty to complain about, being a member of the infamous Fakes. Loud house-mates, a high-risk lifestyle, poorly-thought out bets and a myriad of other problems. But a lack of challenge has never been one of them.

The first human contact Ryan has after being placed in lockdown is a younger looking officer, by age alone the Vagabond would peg him as being freshly out of whatever academy was desolate enough to warrant a man to decide that Los Santos was a better shot. That or born and raised, but the face is not one that Ryan knows. There is something too open about the man’s expression, too cheerful to be real, and the gent settles in for the long haul.

“So this must be a new kind of situation for you, isn’t it?”

The question comes as the officer takes a seat just across from the Vagabond. Out of reach, under supervision most likely. Out of harm's way. That’s fine, Ryan has no intention of going off on the first person he sees. That’s just not going to cut it. He gives a noncommittal shrug, figuring the information this guy is going off of is that there’s no arrest records for the Vagabond in their files. He’s right, of course, but Ryan isn’t going to give up information that easily, no matter how useless.

“I’m Officer Luna. And while I won’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, exactly,”

“You wound me.” The wry smile that comes over the Vagabond’s painted, bloodied face is an unsettling one, only set off further by the almost soothing low tones of his voice. It’s non-threatening only in the most technical sense as Ryan lays his palms up against the table, chain rattling from his wrist as he does so. The picture of innocence superimposed over a nightmare. 

“Personally, I’m quite pleased to meet you, Officer Luna. In fact, I’m thrilled to be talking to anyone in this establishment.” Ryan knows how to put on an act like no other in the Fakes. Certainly, the Golden Boy can spin his yarns, talk people in circles until he gets what he wants but the Vagabond is an actor in a totally different sense. Theatrical. Dramatic. With just a high enough body count and enough rumors floating around him that enemies and allies and passerby alike buy in rather than scoff at the characterization. 

Luna seemed to take in that information for a moment, not yet showing any indication of being uneasy, which Ryan has to respect him for. At least a little. Of course, it probably has something to do with the fact that the Mad Vagabond has effectively been brought to heel, unarmed and wounded in enemy ground. Or the one way mirror through which Luna is almost certainly being watched by his superiors. The brave face is for more than just the Vagabond. 

“And why is that, then?” The prompting is calm, tone even as Luna catches his eye directly.

“Because if I’m not dead, and I’m not in solitary, it means that someone here wants to make a deal. Am I wrong?”  
It’s a bold statement, but one that Ryan is confident in. There’s no reason to keep him under comfortable lock-up with a relatively pretty face to come talk to him besides to try and get something out of him that would have to be given willingly. Information, most likely. Cooperation. He’s seen it happen in rival Crews, crossing a double-crossing for a chance at escape. It goes horribly wrong about as often as it goes right for either party. 

The Vagabond may not be a particularly trustworthy candidate, but the Fakes are rapidly growing infamous, showing up the LSPD at every turn. Sure, arresting the Vagabond and immediately executing him for his crimes would do wonders for public moral, but there was always someone who wanted more. And what would be better than taking down the skull-masked nightmare plaguing Los Santos’ most powerful? Taking the entirety of the Fakes down with him. 

The officer sits back in his chair, looking over Ryan with a critical expression, as if trying to figure out the right angle to hit on a shell in order to crack it open. Trying to find the quickest, most painful wedge to put the pressure on. The Vagabond doesn’t flinch, daring him, and he has to restrain the grin that threatens to escape when Luna opens his mouth.

“I think we may have a mutual interest. You came here instead of sacrificing yourself for a Crew that abandoned you once they got themselves into more trouble than they could handle.” The officer leans forward - Just in reach for Ryan to grab him by the smoothly pressed blue collar. He doesn’t.  
“You don’t take well to that, do you Vagabond? There’s a lot of talk, you know, of people who work with you turning up dead. Word seems to travel that the ones we find are the ones that cross you.”  
He leans back again, breathing measured. Careful. Like this has been rehearsed. 

Ryan wonders idly if he did, if the department had sessions on ‘How to Make a Criminal Angry Enough to Admit to a Crime and/or Turn On Their Crew.’ Had to be a packed room - How the Vagabond would love to be a fly on that wall. Did they have roleplay sessions? He has to hand it to the guy though, it was pretty good delivery. 

“There’s talk about a lot of things.” The answer is cryptic and reveals absolutely nothing, and Ryan can’t help but grin as he says it, glancing to the one-way mirror once more, holding his gaze steady for a moment, and then turning back to Luna.  
“What it sounds like you’re asking me, Officer Luna, is to hurt people. Maybe kill them - I don’t know, you tell me. Since I am, of course, an upstanding Los Santos citizen, I wouldn’t impugn the authority of an officer.” 

It’s all too easy, the sharp-edged grin, the glint of malice that borders alongside vengeful. After all, they’ve given him such an easy role to play. Discarded, furious Crew member left to fend for himself comes back for blood against his former allies? It was really the kind of script the Vagabond was always written to play. It’s only courteous that Ryan auditions for the part.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter on the rest of the crew back at home.

The penthouse after a job is usually a bustling place. Counting out earnings, laughing at retellings of their mistakes and, more entertaining, the mistakes of their rivals who had been laid to waste. Often the nights would end with members of the Crew slowly pairing off and heading to their respective rooms for the night. But now the rooms are quiet, filled with a heavy energy ready to burst at the seams.

When the comm burst at the sound of a gunshot and static Michael was the first to flinch, tear his out at the near-painful sound. After fighting through a few minutes, hopeful for a voice, for something, the rest of them - Jack, Geoff, and finally Gavin took theirs out as well in silence. Ray was the last, straining to catch anything, any clue or hint. But there was nothing during the entire drive back home, and eventually the tiny earpiece was handed quietly over to Jack. 

They’re coping best they know how. Ray tries to go off on his own, sniper in hand, and Michael yanks him back with a force that is almost frightening were it not for the desperate look in his eyes that only said one word - Stay. And so Ray stays, and lets Jack tend to his wounds the best she can. She works quietly as Gavin tends to Michael on the cot beside Ray, some deep muscle bruising, a wrenched shoulder. Nothing that won’t heal. Nothing that they haven’t gone through before.

They’ve all lost people. It’s in their stories, loud, rambunctious and bragging as they talk about jobs and chaos committed with bodies at their sides that are now deep under dirt and in soft, lilting tales of home-places that are homes no longer because the ties are gone. Sunk to the bottom of the sea, names turned to venom on sharp tongues of betrayal. Sometimes the breaks are clean, sometimes splintered and leaving behind shards of memory.

Ray feels like he’s a pincushion of shrapnel, and he can see the others bleeding with it too, silent as they are. It’s like a denial of reality, but the denial fades slowly as Gavin tugs Ray past the bedroom he’s shared with Ryan and into the one he and Michael share, both lads at his sides and making sure he’s not alone - That they’re not alone. Geoff and Jack come to check on them like they’re children sick with a flu, but he can see the burden weighing down Geoff’s shoulders as he looks more at the ground than their eyes and the way Jack can’t seem to take her eyes off of them for more than a few moments, a reassurance that at least they’ve made it out, that they’re safe, as if that would ever be adequate distraction enough from the loss they’ve suffered.

Sometimes the truth matters far less than the appearances, and while Jack sends out for every contact she knows to seek out answers, to seek a body to bury, there are no useful responses forthcoming. Ray tries to remember the last words he heard in the comms but he can’t. It’s too much a blur. Somehow, that’s what pushes the tears over the edge - that he can’t remember Ryan’s last words. 

The damned Vagabond was always so theatrical, he would have planned endlessly for the perfect last words if he had the chance, delivered them in person to anyone willing to listen and Ray isn’t even sure if he had so much as an enemy by his side when he died to hear them. 

For the first time in weeks, Ray doesn’t sleep a wink, listening to the two other lads breathing slow as they eventually fade off. Despite the ache in his chest he forces himself to stay until morning, knowing the relief in their eyes when the sun comes up will have to be enough to keep him going.


End file.
